Boys of ’66 raise a glass to successors – and lost friends
The surviving members of England’s only World Cup-winning squad are thrilled at the progress of the Class of 2018, but tragically few are now well enough to appreciate it, writes Jeremy Wilson
As the player who most riotously celebrated England’s 1966 triumph, waking up after the greatest day of his career in the garden of a random house in Walthamstow, we should not really be surprised that Jack Charlton has already made appropriate plans for a potential World Cup final on Sunday.
His son John owns a pub in a remote coastal village in Northumberland, and that is where Big Jack, at 83 the oldest living member of England’s most famous team, hopes to be watching over a game of pool and a pint of Caffrey’s.
“He was at mine for a barbecue after the quarter-final,” says John. “He likes how Gareth Southgate has relaxed things and made it fun. It’s all about the team spirit and bond, like in 1966.
“He would love them to win, but thinks it’s a scandal that they have waited this long since the last semi-final or final. I said, ‘You never know, if they get to the final, the FA might take you to Moscow.’ He said, ‘I’m not going to Russia!’ It’s a quiet place, my pub, but busy for the games. I should think it will be chock-a-block on Sunday.”
That might just become a glorious understatement. The idea of watching this generation of England players trying to emulate 1966 with one of only eight surviving predecessors should appeal beyond the usual regulars.
“Aye, it’s certainly all starting up again,” says John. “You’re the third press lad I’ve had on wanting to know what Dad thinks. It’s strange. To me, he’s just Dad. I was chatting about it this morning to one of the locals. He looked at me and said, ‘But John, your dad is a legend.’”
The boys of ’66. Back in the limelight and, whether funny, moving or tragic, this inspiring and deeply patriotic collection of friends, husbands, brothers and dads each have an extraordinary story to tell. And for the rest of us, including the Football Association, there are also some rather jarring lessons to be learned. Cup final hat-trick is summing up the unassuming goodwill that his team-mates have always felt towards those seeking to emulate them.
“Bring it home, boys – we are right behind you,” he says. It has, though, been an emotional few months. On the week before England flew to Russia, those who were still able had gathered at Huddersfield Crematorium to say their final goodbye to Ray Wilson, the gregarious and great left-back, who became the third of their team after Bobby Moore and Alan Ball to pass away. Hurst can still vividly recall Wilson telling him that he had dementia.
“We were signing autographs with other sporting celebrities,” he says. “Next to us were two very famous boxers. Ray and I were listening. Who they fought against, which fights they won, which round it was … they had absolutely no idea. They couldn’t remember. Ray looked across to me and – bear in my mind he’d just been diagnosed – said, ‘Welcome to the club.’”
That club is sadly also now inhabited by Martin Peters, the other goalscorer in the final, and Nobby Stiles, the man of the match in the semi-final against Portugal. Sir Geoff ’s wife, Judith, speaks almost daily with Peters’ wife, Cathy. “She tells her how difficult it is living with and caring for someone who has dementia,” says Sir Geoff. “Some deteriorate more quickly than others. Ray had 16 or 17 years living with it. Martin, I’m guessing, is now five or six years. He appears to have deteriorated quite sharply. It’s an awful disease.”
For some years now, Stiles has also been extremely ill at a Manchester care home and the brutal sadness of the journey that he is now on was detailed by Sir Bobby Charlton when he recalled visiting his friend. Sir Bobby was in tears as he left. Theirs was an era when the approach to player welfare can be summed up by Terry Paine’s experience in England’s 1966 group game against Mexico. After a first-half clash of heads, all he can remember was coming around on a table in the dressing room after the match having somehow still played the full 90 minutes.
In the final, The Telegraph’s match report even says “poor Wilson hardly knew where he was after a blow on the head”.
And yet what is always still so striking is the absence of any blame. “There’s no anger,” says Sir Geoff. Wilson’s widow, Pat, has always echoed that sentiment. “Ray was grateful to do what he loved,” she says.
This current outbreak of World